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“Harriet,” I whisper under my breath, seeing how it sounds when I say it. The name is stuffy. It doesn’t suit the fiery redhead with a smart mouth that I met last night.

I shake my head, reminding myself how offended the city girl was by my work truck. There’s no face pretty enough in the world to put up with an attitude like that.

But it was a very, very pretty face. And I know on an intrinsic level that there’s a damn good chance she had a killer body under that long, thick coat.

With my pickup and trailer parked in front of Hank’s mare barn, I’m well into my workday. I have to rotate farrier work throughout the month to get to all his horses, and I’ve finished up four out of the five mares I’m shoeing today. It’s hard work, but still a nice break from fencing duty.

Hank’s horses are kept in tip-top shape. Whispering Pines Ranch has bred some of the top racehorses in the last ten years, and so Hank’s bank account has grown…along with the workload.

Dusting my hands off on my leather chaps that save me from having to purchase new jeans every month, I double check that I set everything up for the final mare of the day. My trailer is stocked to serve as a portable horseshoe clinic; everything I need straps down inside.

My back is sore from hunching over and working on the mares all day, but when I open that barn door, I relax, my back pain forgotten. The soft whinnies from the girls are like a shot of whiskey to my soul. I’ve always felt more comfortable around horses than I did people.

Patsy spots me, poking her head out of her stall and flaring her nostrils for another apple.

“Hey, pretty girl.” I scratch her neck, and she closes her eyes. “Nice try, but your turn is over already.”

She shakes her head like she’s arguing, and I laugh.

Kitty hears my voice and whinnies loudly, coming to the window in her stall to see what’s happening. She sees my hand on Patsy’s neck and tries to bite her.

“Hey now, that’s enough of that. Don’t be jealous, it’s finally your turn, girl.”

She seems to calm down the more I talk, and I take a step in her direction and trail my hand down her nose.

I slide the lead over Kitty’s chestnut ears and mane, unlatching the gate to bring her outside, when a voice calls from behind me.

“Can you untack this mare away for me, sir?”

I blink, my head swiveling to see Princess—Harriet, whatever. She’s in tan riding pants that cling to her muscular legs and ass, a long-sleeved-tee, and an insulated vest that fits her trim figure, enhancing her small waist. I was right—she has an amazing body.

The woman looks like she walked straight out of an equestrian magazine, or maybe she’s expecting judges to appear and give her a blue ribbon.

The sunlight streaming in through the opening in the barn silhouettes the woman like she’s sent straight down from heaven. But she’s no angel. She’s a pony club princess.

“Can you not do that yourself?” flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“You.” Her eyes narrow as she takes me in. “I didn’t recognize you in those chaps.”

I sigh. I look the same as I did yesterday, except for the leather chaps.

She clears her throat. “Hank tacked Dolly for my ride.”

She glances around like a servant will appear and take the reins. My gaze moves past her to the horse she’s with. Dolly is patiently waiting behind the woman. Makes sense he’d give Princess the most docile horse in the stable.

“I’m not the stable boy. We don’t have those in Montana. We take care of our horses ourselves,” I say, opening Kitty’s stall door and leading her past Dolly and the irritating woman beside him.

I give Dolly a pat as I walk by. “Hey, Dolly.”

Leading Kitty toward my truck, I tie her reins to a post by the barn and grab my hoof stand.

The clomp of hooves follows us. “Listen, I don’t know where everything goes, and I could use some help,” Harriet says with a resigned sigh.

I look over my shoulder at the woman. She’s beautiful, well-spoken, and probably not used to being told no. But I’m sure Dolly’s ready to get that saddle off her back, so for her sake, I step towards the mare and take the reins from Harriet’s gloved hand. She doesn’t step back to allow me room, and we’re close enough that the smell of her shampoo or perfume teases my nose.

She smells expensive. The scent reminds me of when I take Tripp into a store and tell him he can’t touch anything. Harriet is too elegant to touch; I can’t afford her.

Besides, the smell of hay is just as good, anyway.